


there were no impossibilities

by ships_to_sail



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Episode: s04e13 Merry Christmas Johnny Rose, Gift Giving, M/M, Sass, Smooching, soft boys in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21759280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ships_to_sail/pseuds/ships_to_sail
Summary: “Hey,” David says, his voice still soft with sleep. He wants to be mad. Ooh, he really does, because he can see by the general lack of sunlight in the room that it’s even earlier than their pre-agreed upon early Christmas wake-up time. He tries to furrow his brow and make a grumpy face but Patrick just laughs and leans down to kiss him right on the little wrinkle he gets between his eyebrows. It’s sweet, and adorable, and so like Patrick it’s almost gross.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 13
Kudos: 164





	there were no impossibilities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storieswelove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storieswelove/gifts).



> For storieswelove, because it's almost Christmas and god damn it David deserves that espresso machine.

David shifts in his sleep and he can smell it. Dark, and earthy, maybe the slightest bit bitter with just hints of chocolate. Coffee. Not just coffee - an espresso of some kind, by the smell of it. And for a moment, caught between sleep and awake, he’s back at Elton’s Venetian villa, waking up to a thudding headache and the first whiffs of David Lynch’s new signature black-label blend. Only, there’s no headache, and the sheets beneath him are a practical-but-beautiful navy commercial cotton, not the absolutely ridiculous black silk that Elton had always insisted on in his guest rooms. 

He wiggles a little deeper into the warmth of the comforter and squeezes his eyes shut, because now he can hear the small shuffles of Patrick, moving around downstairs in Ray’s kitchen, singing a Christmas carol under his breath. Jingle Bell Rock, it sounds like to David, which he’s always outwardly hated and secretly loved, a confession he’d made to Patrick during their last Mean Girls screening, and David can’t decide if he’s being trolled or not. He rolls back over and takes a deep breath, taking in the clean, soapy smell of Patrick that permeates their sheets. It smells like spring linen and David doesn’t understand how that’s possible given that it’s Christmas and freezing as fuck outside.

So cold, in fact, that he can’t smother his yelp when Patrick throws back the sheets and slips in beside him, leaning against the headboard and resting a gentle hand on David’s hip. He throws the blanket back over them both as quickly as he can, but the damage is done and David grumbles half-heartedly. He squirms underneath the light, steady pressure of Patrick’s hand and just like that he’s fully awake and not going back to sleep so he harumphs his body so he’s facing Patrick and tries to work his face into something resembling a smile.

He must not do a very good job, based on the way that Patrick is grimace-smiling back at him compassionately. “Hey,” he whispers, the thumb of his hand making slow circles on David’s hip in a way that, yeah, okay, he doesn’t totally hate and is glad he’s not sleeping through. 

“Hey,” David says, his voice still soft with sleep. He wants to be mad. Ooh, he really does, because he can see by the general lack of sunlight in the room that it’s even earlier than their pre-agreed upon early Christmas wake-up time. He tries to furrow his brow and make a grumpy face but Patrick just laughs and leans down to kiss him right on the little wrinkle he gets between his eyebrows. It’s sweet, and adorable, and so like Patrick it’s almost gross. “Why are we up?! I do believe I remember promises being made,” he grumps.

Patrick has the common courtesy to look sheepish, the smallest bit of blush creeping high onto this cheekbones. “Yeah, sorry about that. My gift got a little, uh, louder than I was anticipating.”

That perks David’s attention and he half-pushes, half-shimmies his way up the bed until he’s sitting next to Patrick, lip caught between his teeth to keep from grinning, his eyes sparkling. “Gift, huh? I thought we both agreed we weren’t gonna do that this year. Something about quarterly projections and reinvesting revenue? I wasn’t listening but you sounded very smart when you said it.”

“Oh, just the one time you weren’t listening, huh?”

“It is not my fault that you are the business and I am the creative. When you talk numbers things just go all Charlie Brown.”

“But you heard enough to hear no gifts.”

“Obviously.”

Patrick’s laugh is brighter and clearer than is rational for this early hour, and all David really wants to do is pull him down into the sheets, toss the duvet over their heads and take Patrick’s fingers in his mouth. To push himself up and over Patrick’s body until he’s caging him in with his elbows, the full length and weight of his body pressing down against this man he loves so much. He’s already mentally got Patrick’s pants off when Patrick reads the look on his face and shakes his head gently, his grin incredulous. “I love you, David.”

“Mm, I love you to. Now where’s my present?”

“First things first,” Patrick turns to grab something off the nightstand and turns back to face David with two mugs in hand, intensifying the espresso aroma ten-fold.

“Oh my God, is that-”

“-grande caramel macchiato, skim milk, two sweeteners and a sprinkle of cocoa powder.”

David’s fingers itch to reach out and take the mug, but a little voice in his head holds him back. “I refuse to drink that powdered coffee bullshit.”

The look on Patrick’s face is almost hurt. “Would I do that to you, David?” 

Once upon a time, maybe, but Patrick has known David long enough, knows him well enough, that David genuinely can’t imagine Patrick measuring out the granular powder and mixing in tap water from the electric kettle and actually thinking it would be a blend David had any interest in drinking.

“I thought Twyla was closing down the cafe today? Giving George the day off.”

Patrick nods and seems unusually preoccupied with the end of a loose thread in the hem of his t-shirt. “Yeah, no, yep. She did, cafe is still closed.”

“So then where…” he feels like an idiot that it’s taken his this long to put it together, but in his defense it is ridiculously early, he really doesn’t function well before 10am, and they were out late that stupid last-minute Rose Family Christmas soiree, and he hasn’t actually had any of the coffee in Patrick’s had to drink.

He reaches out and wraps his hand around the mug, allowing his fingers to trail slowly along the back of Patrick’s hand as he passes it off to David. The coffee is hot, and rich, and caramel-cocoa sweet in that way that makes him lick his lips before pressing them together and making a long, quiet moaning sound.

“Is it good?” Patrick’s got a look of nervous anticipation on his face, and he can’t stop staring at David’s mouth. David is knocked off guard by the amount of relief that washes over his face when David nods his head enthusiastically.

“It’s perfect.” He takes another sip and then sets it down on the table next to his side of the bed. “But just so I know, is the gift the bringing of the coffee, or?”

Patrick leans forward and makes a noise that’s half exasperation, half absolute adoration, and he plants a kiss on the side of David’s neck before letting his head rest on his shoulder. “No, David. The gift is downstairs in Ray’s kitchen.”

He moves so fast it’s a miracle he keeps from knocking the coffee all over him and Patrick and the sensible navy sheets. But he does, and he takes the stairs two at a time like he’s ten and they’re back in Monaco and this is finally, finally the year he’s going to be getting his first Valentino sweater and a paper-and-ink invitation to Anna Wintour’s New Year’s bash.

In reality, he skids into the kitchen and knows that this is so, so much better. 

Because there on the counter, seeming both woefully out of place and perfectly arranged, is the espresso machine he’d been lovingly staring at on the Williams-Sonoma website for months. Since literally the second day they’d been open to the public and David realized that the space in the back room next to the breaker box would be just the right size. It’s sleek, the brushed-metal silver reflecting the dim kitchen light, making the whole unit seem to glow. It seemed a bit much to say that he could hear angel choirs, but only a bit.

The plastic hopper above the pour spout was filled with beans, and David could see the metal steam pail peeking out of the sink, two glass espresso glasses next to it, insides coated with dark brown residue. The blue-light glow of the control panel calls to David like a beacon, and he felt almost nervous about reaching out to touch it, turning a nob here and pressing a button there until the gentle hum of the grinder motor kicks on. Patrick comes rushing up to him, look of panic on his face as he scrambles to grab the porta-filter out of the sink and slide it carefully back into its slot.

David just crosses his arms and leans back on the counter, looking at Patrick. He presses his lips together in that way that means he’s swallowing a giant, beaming grin. “Nervous, are we?”

“No, no, not at all. Just. You know. It won’t work if the filter’s not in it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course. So you don’t mind if I just mess around a little, touch this beautiful piece of machinery without reading the manual?”

Patrick hesitates before shrugging and reaching around to the back of the machine, pulling out a thick, rolled-up booklet. “It’s just got a lot of settings, David, and there’s this whole thing about grind texture-”

David’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline and it’s the perfect moment for him to reach out and loop his index fingers through the elastic band on Patrick’s pajama pants, pulling him forward and gently easing the user manual out of his hand. He reaches his arms around Patrick, low on his hips, and mumbles “grind texture” in to the soft skin beneath his ear as he plants a soft, gentle kiss and follows it up with a quick bite. Patrick’s arms come up around David’s neck and he sinks into him, allowing his body to relax against David’s as they both lean back against the counter. 

When they kiss, it tastes like caramel. And cocoa. Warm milk, and coffee, and love.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from ["instant coffee"](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=27317) by Frank O'Hara


End file.
